Marco was having a private war with the FBI. Two months earlier, he was at O’Sheas bar and overheard a conversation between four young women who appeared to be employed by the FBI as technicians. One in particular, the others called her Marcia was complaining about making ends meet. She sounded desperate enough for Marco to offer his help. When he did, she accepted his request to provide certain information about any activities at the FBI that involved the company he was employed by, Atronen Pharmaceuticals. Even though Marcia placed limits on how far she would go, it was a good start. He now had two spies inside the FBI. A Special Agent was already on his payroll, but Marcia would be especially valuable because she sometimes did work for the Pharmaceutical Drug Squad, a special group of Agents investigating the spread of counterfeit pharmaceuticals.
The scoring was now Vennuti-3, FBI-0, he thought to himself. Two spies on board and one dead agent. He smiled at the idea of keeping score. He’d always enjoyed competition. Since the FBI was looking into his affairs, he reasoned that there would be additional contests that would add to the score. It was nice to start off with a good lead.
CHAPTER TWO
Two years ago, Mark Matthews joined the FBI as a covert Special Agent; his cover being a private investigation business that he opened six years ago in his hometown of Centerville, Ohio (a suburb of Dayton).
Mark lost his partner and lover Susan Harrigan to a car bomb explosion around twelve months ago in what was a revenge killing in retaliation for a successful FBI sting that cut off millions of dollars being funneled to terrorist groups overseas. Special Agent Susan Harrigan spearheaded the sting against the National Rare Blood Association that was funding the terrorists. The bomber, suspected to be Mel Tarkington, was never apprehended, despite an ongoing international manhunt.
Mark does much of his FBI work out of his home computer center. When the call came from Special Agent in Charge Dennis Peterson to meet with him in Cleveland, he assumed that there was a break in the Tarkington case. He quickly packed two duffel bags with clothes, overnight toiletries, his Glock, slide holster and half a dozen cartridges. He hit the road around seven in the morning. The traffic was light and at twelve on the dot he entered the Cleveland Field Office of the FBI on Lakeside Avenue. Mark checked in at the security desk and headed straight for Dennis Peterson’s office.
Dennis Peterson has been Special Agent in Charge of the Cleveland Office for five years. He recruited Mark as backup for Susan Harrigan, who had operated covertly as the owner/operator of a computer software company.
Mark and Susan worked together in Washington, DC during the second Clinton administration and had a brief, but very torrid, love affair. They had little contact over the intervening years until they ended up working together on the FBI sting against the NRBA. When she was abducted and subsequently rescued, Susan and Mark picked up where they had left off. They were planning a lifetime together at the time of her death.
Her assassination was also very painful for Dennis Peterson. He felt personally responsible for not providing her with adequate protection. Mark could sense this in Peterson’s voice whenever they discussed the Tarkington manhunt.
During the last nine months, Mark has been working out of the FBI’s super computer center in the basement of his home in Centerville. It was equipped to work in tandem with Susan’s computer center, which was moved to the Cleveland FBI office when she died. One of Mark’s strong points is finding people, however, in the case of Mel Tarkington he has drawn a blank. Tarkington has not left much of a trail. Several leads turned out to be so far off base that Mark began to think that they were deliberately planted to mislead his pursuers, either that or Tarkington was incredibly lucky.
Mark’s hatred for Tarkington grew stronger as months went by. The FBI was no closer to apprehending him. Mark couldn’t understand how anyone could snuff out the life of someone for the pure joy of doing it, although this was not atypical behavior for a sociopath. Tarkington evaded the NRBA raid in Denver and apparently had enough money to live comfortably in seclusion. There was absolutely nothing for him to gain by Susan’s cold-blooded murder, especially since it exposed him to possible capture and earned him a top slot on the FBI’s Most Wanted list. He embodied the word nihilist to a “t”. Mark’s earnest hope was that Tarkington would be found before he crawled back down into the rat hole that he must have emerged from.
Mark was in that frame of mind when he entered Peterson’s office. Dennis was on the phone and gestured him to a chair in front of his desk. He talked for another two or three minutes, then got up and leaned across his desk to shake hands.
“It’s good to see you again, Mark.”
“Same here, sir. I got here as quickly as I could. What’s so important that you couldn’t discuss it on the phone?”
Peterson motioned for Mark to close the door. “I’ve got another missing agent situation, Mark, and I’m hoping that you can help us locate him.”
Disappointment was evident on Mark’s face. “I’m sorry, Dennis,” he said. “You took me completely by surprise. I was hoping that this was going to be about Mel Tarkington.”
“That’s my fault, Mark, I apologize. I guess I should have given you some idea about what’s going on, but I suspect a leak here at the Bureau and I didn’t want to take any unnecessary chances. The young man who is missing has been working undercover on an important drug investigation. The last time he called he mentioned that he thought he was being followed. I offered to pull him, but he said that probably he was just being paranoid. That was Friday afternoon and that was the last time I heard from him. He was due to call again last night. I sent someone over to his place, but there is no sign of him or, thank god, any sign of foul play.”
Peterson sank down in his chair. “Mark, I’m going to tell you something I’ve never told another soul. I’ve come to hate undercover investigations; having to assign agents to work closely with violent criminals, knowing that if they are found out, they’re as good as dead. It’s just so physically, mentally and spiritually draining. First Susan, now this kid Brice Bennett. I’m not sure I can do much more of this.”
The mention of Susan’s name pierced Mark’s heart. Any reminder was painful.
Dennis took note of Mark’s expression. He cleared his throat before he continued, “There I go again. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be insensitive, Mark. Please excuse me.”
Mark replied, “It’s not you. I know it can’t be helped, Dennis. I’m the one that should be apologizing for my sensitivity, but it’s still difficult for me. Please go on.”
Peterson was a big man; his athletic six-two frame was well proportioned. His rugged looks were a perfect fit for the manner in which he carried himself. In college he boxed and even qualified for an Olympic tryout. He made the team as a backup, but never participated in the games. The soft side, that Mark was seeing now, didn’t fit Peterson’s persona as the leader of an FBI field office, but in this special instance Mark was comfortable with it. They were sharing the same pain.
Mark got back on track. “Tell me about this young man. What was he working on?”
Dennis regained his composure. He picked up a file from the desk and scanned through the contents, giving him time to figure out what he would say next. After a few minutes he tossed it down. “Our office has a Pharmaceutical Drug Squad that investigates major drug trafficking. Pharmaceuticals companies are the most profitable and fastest growing legal businesses in the world. Unfortunately that has attracted the worst elements in our society, each looking for a piece of the action. Some of the cases we’re working on involve long-term, very complex investigations. We’ve had a bunch of successes, but unfortunately we can’t keep up with the explosive growth of counterfeit drugs and drug thefts. There’s a ‘drug mafia’ in our country that is just as organized and dangerous as La Cosa Nostra was a few years back. Some of the same people are involved with this new venture.
“One of their major revenue sources involves the manufacturing and distr
ibution of fake meds that have caused the deaths of hundreds of innocent people, nationwide. Most of the fatalities have been among the elderly, where the cause of death is often attributed to natural causes. Investigators don’t always gather up the victim’s prescriptions and have them tested, so we suspect that the few hundred cases that we are sure about is only a small sampling of the actual total.
“Our unofficial statistics have the nationwide death toll in the tens of thousands. We’ve shut down several of the repackaging facilities where they remove about half of the original drugs from the bottle, replace them with fake pills and reseal and repackage the bottle. They make a point of putting some genuine pills in every bottle so that if something happens and the pills are tested, there is less chance that the fake pills will be discovered. Often the counterfeit pills provide a ‘placebo effect’ and go unnoticed for some time. The real pills that are removed from the bottles are sold in bulk to legitimate franchised drug packagers through a network of jobbers. It’s such a large business that it is very difficult to monitor because they don’t use the same jobbers every time.
“We know that there is a cartel operating through small generic drug companies in eight Midwestern states. These companies are manufacturing and distributing fake drugs. Sometimes they perform their illegal activities inside legitimate companies, totally undetected. The Justice Department is building cases on the ones they know about, but there are new ones cropping up all the time. It is a slow, arduous process. It seems that as soon as we shut one down, another one takes its place. I guess from their point of view that’s just business as usual.
“We need to cut off the head of this monster to have any lasting effect. We have very limited resources and whenever we ask for more help we’re reminded that we are not the only agency working on the problem. There simply is not enough money or personnel to go around.
“At the same time there are multiple Congressional Committees looking into the matter, so Justice is putting the pressure on us for substantial results.” He stopped for a minute to take a sip of water.
“Excuse me, where are my manners? Can I get you something?”
“No thanks, Dennis, I’m good. How come I haven’t heard much about all this type of drug activity? Why would the mob get mixed up with prescription drugs? I can understand their getting involved in distributing illegal drugs, but I don’t see them messing with prescription meds and being involved with manufacturing facilities.”
“I don’t know the whole story, Mark, but from what I hear, a while back some poisoned crack and heroine got onto the street and a lot of addicts died. It scared so many users that street sales of drugs dropped over forty-eight percent overnight. When many of their previous customers switched to pharmaceutical drugs, including pain pills, for their highs, the mob apparently realized that they had themselves a potential new line of business-one with a respectable air.”
“A very adaptable group, aren’t they?”
“That’s for sure. We’ve zeroed in on a few of their distribution facilities, even managed to shut a few of them down. We know the main manufacturing for the eastern cartel is located here in Cleveland. The company is called Atronen Pharmaceuticals. They were a legit generic supplier when they first started, but the mob bought them out when the founder died about four years ago. They sort of made them an offer that couldn’t be refused, if you know what I mean.
“The man who runs the company is a retired CEO from a venture fund. His name is Mitchell Turner. As far as we can tell, he doesn’t have a direct connection to the mob, but it is clear that they’re pulling his strings. They may have something on him; we’re not sure. Anyway, this is the company that Justice wants us to bring down. That’s why I recruited Brice Bennett right after he graduated from Case Western Reserve, School of Medicine. He has a PharmD degree. He finished his eighteen-week training at Quantico three months ago with flying colors. During that time he was also busy sending out résumés as a cover for his training time. He applied for a job in Atronen’s research laboratory and thanks to a nationwide shortage of pharmacists he was hired on the spot. At our direction, he started stealing pills, a few at a time, just enough to get noticed. The plan was for him to get caught and it worked. As we hoped, instead of being fired or arrested he was recruited by their Vice President of Security, Marco Vennuti, who told Brice that he would overlook his stealing if he agreed to work on special projects for him on the side. Brice, of course, agreed.
“They’ve used him to transport merchandise and help set up mini-packaging shops. Recently, he fed us some information that led to the Cleveland Police Department pulling over a van loaded with stolen pills. The other day he told us about a shop he helped set up to re-package pills. We raided it and shut it down. That was Friday night and it was the last time I spoke to him. I’ve tried to be careful, to limit his exposure, but it looks as if I may not have been careful enough.”
“Is there any indication that they were on to him?”
“Nothing, other than his disappearance. He’s missing over forty-eight hours now.”
Dennis picked up the folder and removed a photo. “This is Brice’s picture. He’s six feet tall, weighs about one hundred eighty-five pounds. He’s twenty-five years old, although, as you can tell from this photo, he looks a lot younger.” He handed Mark the photo.
“I can see why no one would suspect him. He looks so young and innocent.”
“I met his parents at the Quantico graduation ceremony. Real nice people; they were so proud of him working for the government. Mark, I want you to work full time finding him. If you need help, just ask. I’ve arranged for a cubicle to be set up for you to use while you’re here. Of course the Super Computer Center is yours to use at will.”
He handed Mark Brice’s personnel file. “All his personal information and credit card numbers are in this file. Keep me in the loop.”
Mark picked up the file and turned to leave. “I’ll get right on it, Dennis. I’ll let you know when I find out anything.” He accessed the laptop on the desk in his temporary cubicle, knowing that he had at his disposal, if he needed it, the Super Center that Susan assembled, or, if necessary, the duplicate configuration in his home. He chose the later in case some processing was going on in the Super Center. Within minutes, he was connected.
He started with a routine check on Brice’s credit cards. That was a dead end. There was no activity on any of them for the past two weeks.
“Hi there, stranger. I heard you were in the building,” a voice said over the partition. Mark recognized the voice before he even looked up. It was that of John Wellman, Assistant Special Agent in Charge (ASAC); one of three at the Cleveland FBI office. John was the team leader during the successful search for Susan Harrigan when she was abducted.
“John, how’s it going, bud?”
“Just great, Mark. What brings you up to our neck of the woods? Is this a regular visit?”
“No, I’m working on a special project for Dennis. I know you guys can’t survive up here without seeing my mug every once while,” he quipped.
“Then maybe you’ll have time for a few beers later at O’Sheas. We can catch up on things.” Mark looked at his watch. It was almost noon already.
“That sounds doable, John. If I can make it, I’ll be there around seven.”
After John left, Mark accessed one of his special programs to look for any activity on Brice’s telephone card. As the program was processing, he went to the break room for some fresh-brewed coffee. He was adding two packs of sweetener to the cup when he happened to look up at the TV set that was tuned to a local news channel. A news bulletin suddenly scrolled down the screen:
ELEVATOR ACCIDENT CLAIMS THE LIFE OF A WAREHOUSE WORKER.
The Cleveland Police Department reported this afternoon that the body of an unidentified worker at the Atronen Pharmaceuticals warehouse was found in an elevator, pinned between two floors. Police speculate that the elevator was stuck between floors and that the man attemp
ted to escape through a gap between the top of the elevator and the third floor. They theorize that the elevator moved unexpectedly and the man was crushed and killed.
“Oh, my God,” Mark said out loud. There was no photo, but he knew that the victim was Brice Bennett. He left his coffee on the counter and rushed back to his desk to make a call. Within minutes, he was speaking with Walter Jacobsen, Cleveland’s Chief of Police. Jacobsen was an ex-FBI agent. “Walt, how have you been?”
“Just great, Mark. It’s so good to hear your voice again. Are you here in town?”
“Yes, I’m up here on a special assignment. That’s why I’m calling. I’m looking into the disappearance of one of our agents. I just saw a news flash on TV about a body found at the Atronen Pharmaceuticals warehouse. I’m thinking that that could be him. I sure hope not. Was there any ID on the body?”
“Hold on a minute, let me check,” the Chief said. A few minutes later he was back on the phone. “His pockets were empty except for some loose change and a comb. The people at Atronen are being very tight lipped about whether he was an employee or an intruder. We’re still investigating. Do you have a recent photo of your man? The ME’s got the body already. I can check it for you.”
“I sure do. Let me fax it over to you. Needless to say, this has to be kept quiet. Will you get back to me as soon as possible so I can update Dennis?”
“I’ll call you the minute I find out anything and of course, if this turns out to be your man, I’ll keep everything quiet at this end until I hear from Dennis about how he wants to handle it.”
“Thanks Walt. You’re a true friend of the Bureau.”
Mark faxed the photo from Brice’s file. It took Jacobsen about ten minutes to get back.
“I’m sorry I was so long, Mark, but I wanted to check it out personally. There is no doubt about it, he’s your man. The ME says he died of mechanical asphyxia caused by being crushed from two sides. Aside from chest and abdominal injuries, that would be consistent with this kind of accident. There were no other signs of trauma on the body. So, as of right now, we have a John Doe in our morgue that died from an accidental cause. I’ll sit on the file until I hear back from Dennis.”
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